These lines, you say, they

prevent you from acting. You

dissimulate, a hidden

desire, there at the cross of my

legs where the x meets y, two

lines intersect just at the same

moment your foot steps off the

curb and the Eiffel throws her

beacons, both of us are bony

disjointed, elegant in that strange

way of the suffering, of the in-love.

We become by bounds, infinitely

more attractive. Desirous to others

who want but a piece of this action.

We are blind to these efforts.

Seeing only me who is seeing only you

on this cold day in early April, Boston, 2005.